Write from the perspective of someone you hurt.
Not their voiceβtheir thoughts. The things they would never say to you.
What do they think about when your name comes up?
What wound are they still carrying that you cannot bandage?
We could have had the world together. You could have had everything you wanted, and so much more with me. I gave you every single opportunity to have absolutely everything and in abundance too.
But in your emotionally and juvenile mindset you couldnβt fathom and figure out to even speak the simplest truths to me. Instead of asking you chose silence, instead of talking you lied. Instead of hearing you shouted and when I gave you what you wanted, you took more and more until I had nothing more to give. Had you at least kept it for yourself to hold, that would have been one thing, but you gave it away. You dropped it for your little playthings as food in a fishbowl just so they would see you as someone good and mighty. Someone that could be there for them and protect them.
And you never even thanked me for any of it. Even after confronted you didnβt thank me for the things I gave you.
And as I think back, I realise that I am happy that I gave you things. Because no one else would have given you anything even close to what I had to offer. And you needed it. But you never considered what I needed and wanted. It was just enough for me to be led along and just enough to keep me giving you more. But it wasnβt sustainable. You canβt expect something to create gold out of rubbish. The gold I already had, but I was happy to share of it and the rubbish I received, I first thought of as precious because it was from you. Not until later did I realise how it was exactly that. Rubbish. Garbage. Something you already had used and were done with so it wasnβt difficult to give it to me.
I was left alone and not able to trust or believe in so many wonderful things because of what you did. Things I may never believe in again. The wounds got too deep and they werenβt tended and taken care of. Scar tissue is not flexible. It is not changing and growing. It isnβt dead tissue, but it wonβt grow and turn into a new part of me or become what it once was.
When someone speaks kindly to me, I am waiting for the insult. When I am given a compliment, I am waiting to see what it is they want from me.
I donβt expect nice things from people anymore because I donβt believe in nice things in people anymore.
And every time someone tells me they like me, I can only hear how you laugh in the back of my head and tells me that I am fat, old, unfuckable and not worth spending time or energy on.
If or when your name is to come up somewhere somehow, I cringe. I make myself smaller. I want to hide and find somewhere I am safe. But I am not sure where that place is anymore. I donβt feel much safety, and I am afraid of losing the few safe places and moments I do have.
